S.K. Misra - Flying in High Winds

Published by

Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2016

7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

New Delhi 110002

Copyright S.K. Misra 2016

Photos courtesy author archives

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the authors own and the facts are as reported by him which have been verified to the extent possible, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First impression 2016

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The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publishers prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

To my father, the late Professor H.N. Misra, who instilled in me the right values, and whose motto Rugged is the path of duty has kept me on the right path throughout my career.

Contents

MY JOURNEY

The Early Years

I am a Libran, born on 8 October 1932. I was born in my mothers village, Raghunathpur, in Kanpur district, Uttar Pradesh (UP). Shortly afterwards, my mother and I moved to Sitapur, a small town in UP, where my paternal great-grandfather, who was nearing his century, my grandfather, my father and other family members lived in an old house. My grandfather taught in the government high school, and my father, in his youthful exuberance and with great passion, had thrown in his lot with the national struggle for independence. In violation of prohibitory orders, he once addressed a large public meeting, spouting venom against the British rulers. He was apprehended as he was about to board a train and lodged in the district jail for a year. After he was released, practical considerations of having to support a wife and son compelled him to give up politics in favour of life as a professor of English literature. He moved to Kanpur with some other family members, including his younger brother, elder sister and elder sister-in-law. The latters husband, my fathers elder brother, Beni Madho, had mysteriously disappeared one day. He later surfaced in the US, where he went by the name of Ben Misra, and became a well-known writer and political commentator.

What I remember of those early years was that we were a large and happy family, supported by a few domestic helpers. Ours was a traditional joint family, rooted in old UP values. Meals were eaten in the kitchen, with adults seated on low stools and children making themselves comfortable on the floor. Western civilization had not yet made its presence felt in our home, and forks and knives were unknown commodities. We followed the precepts of the rishis and munis of yore, who prescribed direct contact with ones food. Food was served piping hot; it was all organic, untouched by pollutants of any kind. In retrospect, they seem like the good old days.

In 1935 Adolf Hitler was making his presence felt, although World War II was still four years in the future. We were still living in Sitapur then. In India, the British were at their favourite game of dividing countries, and Burma was wrenched away from the mother country two years later. As a sop, provinces were allowed to have their legislatures and elections and to govern, but under parental supervision. None of this disturbed the peace of Sitapur until yours truly, then three years old, decided to provide some excitement.

In my memory, perhaps Photoshopped a bit over the years, it was a serene, bright and sunny morning; the birds were singing and the trees were rustling in the breeze. I made my entry into the kitchen and took my rightful place on the floor. My great-grandfather, with single-minded devotion, was doing full justice to the food presented to him on a thali, as were other family members. Out of the corner of my eye I observed a small object a little distance away from where I sat, which I assumed belonged to my toy collection. It was a matchbox, and I wondered how it had reached there. Very quietly I retrieved my possession and, not keen to spend more time in the kitchen, I left.

As my great-grandfather was completely absorbed in his food, I decided to explore his room, which was adjacent to the kitchen and faced the main road. I had the matchbox in my hands, and perhaps out of a desire to conduct a scientific experiment, I lit a matchstick and applied it to a quilt lying in a corner. My experiment to set the quilt on fire was successful, and frightened, I beat a hasty retreat.

Lunch over, my great-grandfather emerged from the kitchen, belching and looking forward to a peaceful siesta. When he opened the door to his room, all hell broke loose. The room was in flames, and soon family members were running helter-skelter with buckets of water in their hands. The neighbours also joined in.

The enormity of my action dawned on me and fearing the worst, I hid in a remote corner of the house. Who could have done this? was the question on everyones mind. No one suspected an innocent three-year-old, and suspicion fell on a young servant who had recently been recruited. He was thrashed for the crime but refused to confess to it, so he was sent back to his village home in disgrace.

A feeling of guilt overcame me, which I have not been able to shake off to this day. But what was I to do? Early on in life, I had realized the wisdom of the phrase discretion is the better part of valour. I am ashamed, even now, to admit that I remained quiet about my role in the fire, though because of my conscience, I continued to harbour feelings of guilt.

A couple of years later, after completing his century, my great-grandfather closed his innings. I then decided that the time had come to confess. I knew that I was my fathers favourite. Taking this as a strategic advantage, at a time when he had bought me some new toys, I asked him whether he had been able to discover the real culprit for the Great Fire of Sitapur. He replied that like the Great Fire of London it was an unforgettable experience that would remain a mystery.

Finally came the moment of truth. I said that everyone had been most unfair to the servant. Why? asked Dad. Because the real culprit is standing in front of you, I replied. Dad was stunned, to say the least, but time is a great healer. He was quiet for a couple of minutes and after seeing the doleful look on my face, he smiled and only said, You naughty boy and let it go. So I thus became an arsonist at the age of three. I did not practise this art again, though I was tempted to do so several times.

At the age of about four, I was admitted to the Huddard School, which was run by three Anglo-Indians, Miss Dutton, Miss Miller and Mrs Gration. Mrs Gration was extremely formidable and I was very frightened of her.

I have a distinct memory of an incident from those days, regarding a pictorial magazine lying at home that I chanced upon one day. In it I found, to my mind, a lovely new nursery rhyme, that read:

Half-an-inch, half-an-inch, half-an-inch shorter

The skirts are the same for mother and daughter.

When the wind blows

Each of them shows

Half-an-inch, half-an-inch, half-an-inch shorter.

I memorized these lines and in school the next day, I proudly told my teacher that I had learnt a new nursery rhyme. She asked me to recite it and I did so. But instead of receiving a pat on the back, she asked me angrily who had taught me these lines. I replied it was my father, anxious to give him credit for it. It was truly a Wodehousian predicament that I found myself in!